


Ordinary Just Wouldn't Do

by Detochkina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BBC Merlin Secret Santa, Christmas Eve, Cooking, First Date, Fluff, Humor, M/M, More Fluff, Neighbors, Pining, Romance, Smut, neighbors to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 11:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5584087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Arthur is a lonely soul with little going on in his life besides his work. With grand culinary aspirations and yet no one to cook for, he's become used to setting his table for one. Meeting his full-of-life neighbor Merlin changes that. With Merlin’s help, Arthur learns how to open up and how to find happiness. </i><br/> <br/><i>(Or the story of burnt beans on toast, kindness, and unexpected Christmas presents, and in which flats 21 and 28 fall in love)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary Just Wouldn't Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenofCamelot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofCamelot/gifts).



> For Teresa ( [Merlockfeels](http://merlockfeels.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr), who asked for:  
> "Modern AU fic where Arthur is really lonely and sad because everyone in his life has left him/died, but then he meets Merlin who loves life and helps him see the bright side of it. Merlin loves him in a way Arthur feels he's never been loved before and I'd love it if the ending was really fluffy and their relationship really sweet. It'd also be great if they were young adults, maybe aged 20-25."  
> Hi Teresa, I was your Secret Santa this year, and it's been an absolute pleasure to write this story for you. I hope with all my heart that this is what you were looking for and it's enjoyable for you! Happy New Year!
> 
> My huge thanks to Candymacaron for supporting and encouraging me and for pre-reading. You're always amazing to me. <3  
> Also, my undying love goes to my [M](https://twitter.com/EditsandSnark). Thank you for being a fantastic beta and awesome friend!  
> Special thanks to the lovely mods running [Merlin Secret Santa 2015](http://bbcmerlinsecretsanta.tumblr.com/) fest! Cheers!
> 
> To get me going, I used a quick AU prompt from this fantastic [post](http://aithuzah.tumblr.com/post/135382117371/blakesmilitia-im-always-a-slut-for-a-christmas)
> 
> Characters are not mine. No copyright infringement intended.

<~~~>

 

It’s a snowy Tuesday evening, nearing seven o’clock, and Arthur knows what’s coming.

In a few minutes’ time, he’ll hear the screeching sounds of a violin being tortured by his neighbour from flat 27 -- a tragically tone-deaf kid, whose mum probably nurses a dream of him becoming a Paganini, or at least a Vanessa-Mae. That poor kid has a rigid practice schedule. Unfortunately, Arthur lives in flat 28 and shares the wall.

His usual remedies are to either stay at the office late or go for a run in an attempt to decompress. As the recently-appointed head of an accounting team, he’s under a lot of pressure. He has an important job to do, which his neighbours in 27 obviously have no respect for, and tonight, due to the blizzard and an emergency pest-control job in his office building, he’s stuck inside, doomed to listen to a botched-beyond-recognition “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on repeat.

The truth is, even though he’s occasionally annoyed by the incessant noises coming from his neighbours, he would never move out of his flat at Camelot Court Apartments. The place is not big, but high ceilings, parquet floors, and large windows bringing in tons of natural light make it feel more spacious. The building is close to the tube and rent is modest. Arthur can't ask for more.

Grabbing his laptop, he escapes to the kitchen, the quietest room in his flat. It’s small, curtains too short and too sheer, but he’s rather proud of the three-tier spice rack he mounted to the wall. Setting his computer on the table, he fires up BBC iPlayer. With the little amount of time he normally spends at home, he doesn't need a telly. The re-run of his favourite cookery show in the whole world is on.

Arthur opens the refrigerator and is met with the nearly virginal, white depth of it. He’d meant to stop by Tesco, but the weather and pre-holiday crowds chased him home. He sighs. Will it be beans on toast for him tonight?

When Arthur was twelve, when his father, Uther Pendragon, was still alive and his stepmother, Catrina, hadn't taken over everything that was in the Pendragon name, Arthur had discovered _Roasting with Kilgara,_ a show popular not only due to the unusual twists on well-known recipes offered by the renowned Chef Kilgara, but also because of his wisecracks. Every weekend morning, when all the other kids were enjoying _SMTV Live_ with Cat Deely, Arthur was glued to the telly to learn how real food in real homes was made, because it wasn’t something he was spoiled with often at his own.

Over time, Kilgara’s simple supper and snack recipes, spiced up with relatable stories and useful advice, became Arthur’s lifeline. The show had such an influence on Arthur, he even began dreaming about becoming a master chef himself. Uther had always told Arthur he could be anything he wanted to be if he only put his mind to it. If that “anything” was a lawyer or a chief executive, of course. Uther was meant to live until he was grey and old, and Arthur was meant to continue his father’s legacy.

Fate had different plans for both of them.

Turning up the laptop’s volume to drown out the violin wailing next door, Arthur picks out whatever he can find in the refrigerator. Beans on toast it is tonight for him, indeed, but in honour of his childhood idol and culinary genius, he can try to kick it up a notch. He looks at the giant poster on the wall from where Kilgara in brown jacket, arms crossed, shoulder forward, looks at Arthur with stoic approval. Kilgara’s signature in the corner of the poster is the closest interaction Arthur has had with his idol. He’d paid a hefty sum for it on eBay.

Arthur chops a quarter of a slightly-wilted onion, grates what's left of the cheese -- already dried-up but perfect for this particular recipe -- and opens a can of treacle he had bought nearly six months ago and forgot about.

All that, plus beans, some vinegar, sugar, and curry powder, goes into the heated saucepan while he slices up bread, sprinkles it with cheese generously, and turns on the oven to preheat it.

He sets the table for dinner the way he always does: one plate, one fork, and one knife, and pours himself a glass of chilled 2009 Les Clos Chablis, because although he might’ve never achieved greatness in cooking, he’d become a bit of a snob when it came to good wine. Letting it breathe a little, he stirs the contents of the saucepan, the pungent smell of molasses and curry wafting from it, and pauses in front of the window, beads of condensation fat on the glass. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wipes the fog in an uneven, streaky circle. Dampness seeps through the fabric, clings, chills his skin. It’s barely past seven o’clock, but as it always does in the wintertime, it feels like it’s much later.

Behind the window, all Arthur can see is a thick powder of snow rapidly falling from the sky. The solid white wall does not penetrate the dark of the evening -- it somehow enhances it. Arthur shivers and hugs himself. Tomorrow, the city will be buried in snow, and it’ll take him twice as long to make it to work.

His mobile rings in the other room. Grimacing, Arthur picks up his laptop and goes to answer it. 

“Yes, Lance,” he says into the phone without looking at the screen, as he closes the kitchen door behind himself. There aren’t a lot of people who’d be calling him at this hour. Few people would be calling Arthur, period, except for work. He simply doesn’t have anyone.

“I’m sorry to bother you this late, Arthur,” Lance, his junior analyst, starts, “but it’s a bit of an emergency. For tomorrow’s meeting with the CFO.”

Noting the low level of the laptop’s battery, Arthur moves to his bedroom, where his desk is. Judging by the panic in Lance’s voice, this could take Arthur a while.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur switches the mobile to speaker and plugs in his laptop.

“I apologise, but I left the flash card with the presentation slides at the office and I still need to work on them before sending it to you for approval. I’d go back, Arthur, I swear, even with the blizzard, but we’ve been explicitly told to stay out of the office tonight. Pest control, as you know. Those blimey rats... So, I was hoping,” Lance babbles, “that maybe you by any chance had a copy on your laptop? If you could just email it to me?”

Arthur scrubs his face. “Yes, I do have a copy.”

Lance lets out a breath of relief. “Oh, that’s fantastic! Thank you!”

Arthur sighs. “Don’t thank me yet. The version I have is from two weeks ago and is missing the latest data. I had pulled it together for you and it was all on that flash card.”

Lance groans. “Oh god. Should I call the office security? See if they’ve finished chasing the rats?”

Arthur huffs. Rat race. Isn’t it exactly what they’re all in, constantly? Glancing at the clock, he shakes his head. “The exterminators were scheduled to start at seven tonight. It would take them a while to finish all six floors and air it all out.”

“What do I do? There must be something!” Lance sounds like he’s about to cry.

“There is.” Arthur is already connecting to the company’s private network. “We’ll have to pull the data again and recreate the missing slides. I know it’s unpleasant, but not the end of the world.”

“Arthur, I’m so sorry,” Lance starts again, but he’s groveled enough already, so Arthur interrupts him. “Please, don’t be. It happens to the best of us. The sooner we get on with it, the sooner we’ll be done.”

Lance gasps. “ _We_? Oh no, I’d never… You don’t have to--”

There’s no way Arthur can just dump the assignment on Lance and leave him struggling for the rest of the night. He reaches for his headphones. “It’s all right, Lance, really. It's just a couple of slides. Let me start the conference and share my screen with you. It’s a good opportunity for us to double-check everything anyway and make the presentation solid.”

The connection is slow and keeps lagging, frustrating both Arthur and Lance and taking them a while to settle into a productive rhythm, but once they do, Arthur forgets everything else. Nothing else matters: the howling sounds of wind outside, or the crying of the violin through the wall, or the loud hammering in the hallway.

“One second, Lance.” Arthur rises to his feet to shut the door. He sniffs the air. Sniffs it again. The hammering in the hallway is getting louder, which Arthur realises is actually not a hammering in the hallway but a pounding on his flat’s door -- and someone’s yelling at him to open it. Also, something distinctly smells like it’s burning nearby and if Arthur isn’t mistaken, it’s coming from his own kitchen.

“Oh, buggering hell,” Arthur curses, remembering. “Lance, excuse me for a minute. Don’t go anywhere!”

Briefly torn between answering the door and saving his supper from destruction, Arthur chooses the door before whoever’s behind it decides to break it down.

He throws the lock, flinging the door open, and comes face to face with a young, tall guy with one hand in a fist frozen mid-air and keys in the other. Arthur’s seen him before in the building. The bloke always smiles so bright, Arthur doesn't know how to react and always ends up muttering a botched greeting and stumble off awkwardly. The guy’s smile is a lot more subdued now, eyes scanning Arthur quickly.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re all right,” he says. He peeks above Arthur’s shoulder into the flat and wrinkles his nose. “I live right below you. Could smell the smoke and was pretty sure it was coming from your flat…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Come in,” Arthur invites in a rush, deciding that if there‘s an immediate threat, it certainly isn’t coming from the fit bloke whose only weapon seems to be his shy smile and sharp cheekbones that kick right off.

“Thanks. Apologies for the inconvenience, but I figured--” The visitor follows Arthur, who goes straight to the kitchen. “Better safe than sorry, yeah?”

As soon as Arthur opens the door, thick black smoke and a terrible stink assaults them. Arthur coughs, his eyes tearing up, and while his senses are still adjusting, his visitor’s already pushing Arthur to the side with a muffled, “Whoa. Let me handle this,” and, pulling his t-shirt over his nose, steps right into the smoke.

There’s clanking of pans in the sink, hissing, and the sound of water running. The bloke appears in front of Arthur with a wet kitchen towel. “Here, hold it at your face,” he instructs and vanishes again in the depth of the kitchen, which is still full of smoke. Arthur hears rattling, banging, some cursing, and the sound of glass breaking with a loud crash, followed by a strong draft of cold, damp air rushing through the room.

“Oi!” Arthur cries. “Did you just break my window?”

“Sorry, mate.” His neighbour comes into view again and marches past him to open the balcony door, like he owns the place. He turns back to Arthur, rubbing his neck and smiling apologetically. “The latch was stuck. I put a bit too much force--”

The smoke detector in the hallway chooses this moment to go off.

“Blimey,” both Arthur and the bloke say at once. Glancing at each other, they rush to the door.

“False alarm. False alarm,” the bloke tells the other neighbors, who start coming out of their flats, murmuring their displeasure and concerns. “Nothing to worry about, friends.”

Arthur has nothing else to do but raise his palms up and nod. “Sorry, sorry. A bit of a mishap with heating up my supper. All sorted now.”

The kid from flat 27, violin in tow, looks up at his mother with a hopeful expression. “Mum, will the firemen come?”

Arthur panics. “What? Why? There’s no fire! Everyone’s safe!”

“Exactly,” Arthur’s companion chimes in. He walks up to the kid. “Hiya, Mordred. What's cookin’, mate?”

The kid beams as they do some sort of a complicated handshake they're both obviously familiar with.

“Evening, Merlin,” Mordred’s mum says, opening the door wider. She has a high, nasally voice Arthur is too familiar with. Giving Arthur an appraising gaze, she fixes her hay-like hair behind her ear. “Are you absolutely certain we're safe? I wouldn't know what to do in case of an emergency, I'm afraid.”

Is she flirting with him? Arthur glances at the bloke, whose name is apparently Merlin. Merlin looks at him knowingly, smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth. The violinist’s mum is flirting with Arthur. There’s no way, no way he’d ever want to encourage that. He makes a helpless noise in his throat.

“You’re absolutely fine, Mrs Olaf. I promise,” Merlin says, coming to Arthur’s rescue. Thank god.

Mrs Olaf purses her lips. “Go back inside,” she tells her son. “Finish your practice.”

The kid’s face falls. “Okaaay.” He follows his mother into the flat with a feeble, “Bye, Merlin,” hanging his head.

“I’m very sorry,” Arthur says again, to a still-lingering older couple from flat 26.

“Hullo, Mr and Mrs Annis. How's your back, Mrs Annis? Hope it's better?” Merlin asks.

“Oh, much! Thank you, love,” the lady says.

“Yes, thank you again for taking my wife to the hospital while I was out of town. You're a fine young man, Merlin. Your uncle should be proud of such a nephew,” the man says.

Merlin’s expression is bright. “Oh, thank you. Glad to hear you're better now. You have a nice evening, yeah?”

“I apologise,” Arthur starts yet again, placing a hand on his heart.

“You're lucky Merlin was there,” Mrs Annis says. “The young man has a heart of gold. He's a keeper.” She winks at Arthur before leaving.

It's just Arthur and Merlin now, and Merlin smiles sheepishly, scratching his jaw, his sooty fingers leaving black streaks all over. He’s clearly about to bid Arthur goodnight, and Arthur shifts foot to foot, not ready for it to happen just yet. Because, well, Merlin did sort of rescue him -- twice. First time, sort of heroically, and second -- gallantly, from unwanted attention, and those sort of things deserve more than a simple thanks.

Merlin shuffles in his spot. “Uh, about your window--”

“Do you want to come in for a cuppa?” Arthur blurts out before he loses his courage. “If it weren't for you, my kitchen’d be in ruins,” he explains, fidgeting.

Merlin raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, his smile turning from friendly to amused. But there’s a certain warmth to it as well, from Merlin’s dark-blue eyes, crinkling in the corners, to his entire expression -- the sort of openness Arthur doesn’t expect from nearly a stranger -- and it does something to his chest, to his throat, tightening briefly, then letting go, having Arthur smile back at Merlin helplessly.

He clears his throat and offers Merlin his hand. “I’m Arthur, by the way. You’re Merlin, right? It’s very nice to meet you.”

“For real?” Merlin asks, huffing a laugh, returning the handshake. His hand is warm and firm, and Arthur holds it for a moment too long, lost at Merlin’s reaction.

He frowns. “I-- I think so?”

“Your name is really Arthur?” Merlin asks.

“Um, yeah?”

Merlin laughs. “Mate, that’s priceless. Did you get teased at school a lot? You know, about you and me?”

Arthur doesn’t know what the guy means exactly and what’s so funny about his name. And why would anyone tease him about someone they don’t even know... Then, it clicks.

“Oh. Ha-ha. No.” Arthur rubs his neck. “Never, actually. Did you?”

Merlin nods, grinning. “Lots and lots. Drove me nutters when I was a kid. Good thing, though.”

“How so?” Arthur asks. He steps into the flat, instantly chilled by the wind beating the curtains in the living room, the snow already piling up at the open balcony entrance. The smell of burnt beans and curry is still nauseatingly strong in the flat.

“I learned everything there was available at the school library about King Arthur and his knights. Dreamed to be one,” Merlin says. “Buried myself in books. Even took up fencing. Mum was happy.”

There’s a tender quality to Merlin’s voice when he mentions his mum, casual but fond, and Arthur can’t help the prickle of jealousy in his chest, brief and familiar. Growing up, everyone had their mothers and took it for granted. Not Arthur, whose mum hadn’t survived childbirth. Merlin’s so, so lucky.

“That’s good,” Arthur murmurs because it’s a polite thing to say.

The kitchen is a complete disaster. The floor under the window is covered with shattered glass, the oven door is open, and the blackened saucepan and scorched remains of toast are dumped into the sink along with the baking sheet, crumbs and soot dusting the sink’s walls.

“Oh man,” Arthur croaks.

“Still feeling thankful?” Merlin asks, sulking in the doorframe.

Arthur shrugs, smile uncertain but there. “Could’ve been worse. Too bad I can’t offer you my supper, though. Beans on toast with a twist, it was going to be.”

“Well, you got your twist.” Merlin waves around. “Sorry.”

Arthur snorts. “Ha.”

Merlin runs his fingers through his hair. His gaze slides over the kitchen table with the one lonely plate still there and he rocks on his heels. “Listen… Arthur.” His lips move after saying Arthur’s name as if testing it out, the sound and the shape of it. “Listen,” he repeats, more decisive. The line of his mouth softens, corners hitching up. “How about we go to mine?”

Arthur puts the kettle on the counter with a heavy clunk. “Err.”

Merlin takes a step forward. “I part-time as a super in this building. It’s… it’s not terribly exciting, but I couldn’t say no to my uncle; he’s getting old, and... Well. I do what I can in my spare time. But that’s not the point. I’ll make sure that your window is taken care of first thing tomorrow. And if there’s any problem with appliances, we can look into that too.”

Ah, no wonder the neighbors and Merlin knew so well each other.

“I see,” Arthur says.

“I’m surprised you haven’t had any complaints so far. Everyone does at some point,” Merlin says, smiling. “You’ve been living here how long? A year? I don’t hear you…uh... much.”

Arthur shrugs. “Yeah. I’m barely home. Who’s your uncle?”

“Uncle Gaius? He owns the Camelot Court. Tells me it’ll be all mine when he’s gone,” Merlin jokes, and adds quickly, “not that I’m looking forward to that.”

Arthur remembers the old white-haired man he signed the letting contract with. He hums.

“I see you’re a fan of Kilgara,” Merlin says, pointing his thumb at the poster on the wall.

“Oh, errr.” Uncomfortable about sharing with his neighbour what the old master chef has meant to Arthur growing up, he turns away and picks up a tea kettle. He steps to the sink. It’s disgustingly dirty there. “Um…”

“The guy is pretty weird, if you ask me,” Merlin comments.

Arthur whirls around. “You know Kilgara?”

Merlin shrugs. “Worked on his show before he retired last year.”

“Oh my god,” Arthur squeaks. It’s embarrassing, but he doesn’t give a damn. Merlin met Kilgara!

“What do you do? Where do you work?”

“I work for a television network. I was a sound engineer assistant on his show.”

Arthur’s eyes light up. “For real?”

Merlin smiles. “Yeah.”

“What’s Kilgara like?” Arthur can’t let it go. He has to know. When else will he have such an opportunity to learn about his idol? “Why did you say he was weird?”

“Well.” Merlin scratches his head. “He can be funny. Brilliant in the kitchen. We’ve all tried his cooking after the show. But, man, can he talk in riddles.”

“Yes, I love his slogans. My favourite is ‘There’s no right or wrong. Only what tastes good,’” Arthur says.

Merlin snorts. “No, in real life. The man does not speak in simple sentences. It’s all catchphrases, smart remarks. He drove our producer nuts.”

“But that’s what made him famous! And the way he cooks. How he explains the process.” Arthur sighs dreamily. “I wish I could meet him.”

“Trust me, some people are best admired from afar.”

“Not Kilgara,” Arthur says firmly. “He’s special.”

Merlin smiles. “I guess…” After a pause, he says, “So,” and nudges his head to the side. “Now that you know I’m not some serial killer, would you like to pop to mine for a bit? You can grab your tea, if you want. Actually, that’d be good.” It looks like Merlin’s cheeks pink up a bit. “I’ve just remembered, I’m out of brew.”

Arthur looks around, back at a blushing Merlin, and thinks that he actually likes the idea. He’s twenty-five, single, and his life is very, very -- way too much -- dull. He bites at the inside of his cheek, heart picking up a beat for some reason. He nods. “Yeah, all right.”

Merlin’s smile blossoms, the sight of it erasing Arthur’s every doubt, if there was any left. “Yeah? Brilliant! Brew at mine, then. And I’ll make a couple of calls on your behalf. Hold on a sec.”

“What--” Arthur startles when Merlin steps out of view, but next, he hears Merlin in the living room, shutting the balcony door. Well, that’s... considerate. On the other hand, Merlin’s uncle owns the place, so no wonder that he worries about the snow damaging their property.

Arthur goes to grab his favourite Yorkshire Gold when his gaze slides to the table. “Hey, Merlin?”

Merlin’s back already. “Yeah?”

Arthur holds up the bottle of Chablis he hasn’t managed to even try tonight. “How do you feel about white wine?”

“Why, I feel splendid about it, especially when free,” Merlin says, eyes bright, cheeks dimpling, and oh god, there it is -- that smile again, soft and pleased, like Arthur’s suggested something brilliant, indeed, and it makes Arthur’s insides go a bit shaky at the sight of it.

“The evening is looking up,” Merlin announces, and then asks, more casually, unexpected, “do you have an extra blanket and a pillow, maybe?”

Arthur tenses up. “Um. Why?”

Merlin, obviously unaware of the kind of thoughts passing through Arthur’s head, innocently points at the window behind him. “To cover that up, for now.” He pauses, appraising it with narrowed eyes. “Actually… I think there’s a better solution...”

Merlin starts to turn around without further explanation, and Arthur has no idea what is happening right now.

“Are you... Merlin. Are you leaving?” he asks, taking a step after him.

“I’ll be right back,” Merlin promises. “I’ll just get a few things from my place. I don’t want to leave it here wide open during the blizzard. You’ll freeze at night.”

“Oh--” Arthur stops.

“Five minutes, tops,” Merlin assures him. “Keep the door unlocked, yeah? I could use my master key, obviously.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “But that’d be rude, don’t you think?”

Arthur nods dumbly and just stands in the middle of the kitchen, glass crunchy under his feet, a tea box in one hand and the wine bottle in the other.

At the door, Merlin pauses. “Do you have a sweeper or a broom?” He gestures at the floor. “To clean this up. Or do you want me to bring one?”

It’s such a trivial question, but it throws Arthur for a loop again -- that someone actually thought of that on his behalf. “No--” he croaks. “I think I’ve got one. I’ll do it.”

Merlin smiles. “Well, then. I’ll see you in a minute.” His eyes sweep Arthur’s frame up and down, and he adds, “You should put something on for now. Something fuzzy?” He winks. “Keep you warm, yeah?”

Arthur nods again, although at this moment, he doesn’t feel cold at all.

Unfortunately, the feeling doesn’t last for long. The moment he’s alone, he gasps. “Oh, bloody hell. Lance!”

 

<~~~>

 

Arthur returns to the conference call with Lance, who has the patience of a saint, and feels like a failure for completely forgetting about him. Some boss he is. He’s in the middle of going over the stats when Merlin walks into Arthur’s flat, calling his name from another room, asking something.

Mobile in hand, headphones in his ears, he steps out of the bedroom. Merlin is holding a piece of plywood under his arm and a toolbox. He’s grinning.

“Sorry it took me a bit, but listen, I’ve got exactly what you need here. I think it’ll fit perfectly,” he tells Arthur merrily. Shakes the toolbox towards the kitchen. “Do you mind giving me a hand?”

Arthur hisses, mutes the call, and turns a pleading expression to Merlin. “I’m sorry, Merlin, I completely forgot that I had a work call. I have to take it. It’ll take a while. Will you be able to take care of the window yourself? I swept the floor.”

Merlin’s face falls a little, but he checks himself quickly, a smile -- much smaller this time -- returns. He adjusts his grip on the wood and squares his shoulders, gaze dropping to his feet. “Yes, of course. I didn’t realise…” He looks up, sincere. “I apologise. I’ll be quick. A bit loud, maybe?”

Arthur nods, thinking to add something else, to thank Merlin, to tell him he has an important day tomorrow and the next year’s budget of his department depends on how this presentation goes, but Lance is calling for his attention on the line, pointing out to some figure he needs help with and Arthur just waves and returns to his world of tables and numbers. His people depend on it.

If Merlin is using a hammer, he’s extremely quiet -- barely a tap here and there, which Arthur appreciates. He tunes it out after a while and when he comes to, it’s three hours later, his flat is silent, and he’s completely alone.

There’s a box of Jaffa Cakes on the table in the kitchen and a note.

 _Not beans on toast with a twist, but I hope you enjoy the treat,_ the note says. _I took measurements and will order the new glass tomorrow, at no charge to you, of course. My apologies for the intrusion again. Merlin, flat 21._

Arthur reads the note several times before putting it down with a sigh.

It’s too late to go downstairs, isn’t it? And what would he say that won’t make him sound like a creep? He plays a speech in his head and gives up.

He blew his chance. Nothing can be done.

He goes to bed at almost midnight and stretches beneath cold sheets, staying very quiet, listening to the sounds of the sleepy house; even holds his breath for a bit before letting it out, long and too loud in the silent room. At some point he thinks he hears something from the flat below. A giggle? Soft music? Shuffle of feet? He’s never paid attention before. Maybe Merlin doesn’t live alone. Maybe he isn’t single. He may not even be into blokes.

 _Way to presume, arsehole,_ Arthur’s thinking, punching the pillow to fluff it under his cheek. _That’s why you can’t have nice things._

His stomach feels unsettled, but it could just be due to a sugar rush -- because Arthur was being a _child_ and ate the whole bloody box of Jaffa Cakes -- so no matter how hard he tries that night to fall asleep, it eludes him for the longest time.

 

<~~~>

 

In the morning, the events of last evening don’t seem as awful as they felt in the middle of the night. Arthur’s still embarrassed, but he also has a game plan.

He doesn’t take a lift as he leaves for work -- a good hour earlier than usual -- and instead takes the stairs one floor down, a gift bag in his hand. There’s nothing special inside the bag: a box of fine tea, a bottle of his favourite wine, and a note of thanks, in which Arthur also insists on covering the cost of the broken window. He wouldn’t want Merlin in trouble for something that was Arthur's fault to begin with.

As he nears his destination, he slows down and practically tiptoes the last few feet. His heart is hammering high in his throat and his palms are sweating when he stops in front of flat 21. Just then, Arthur realises that he hasn’t really thought this whole plan through. Does he leave the bag on the doorstep and go? Does he knock and hand the bag to Merlin in person? Will he have to explain what's in the bag? A minute ticks by and he can’t make up his mind.

The decision is made for him when he hears approaching steps behind the door and Merlin talking to someone. Merlin’s not alone in the flat. Cursing himself under his breath, Arthur ducks, drops the bag on the doormat, and runs down the stairs.

 

<~~~>

 

Arthur feels ill the entire morning, his mind stuck on the gift bag incident as he beats himself up over it. Why didn’t he just knock and wait for a response, like a normal person? Or he could’ve just posted the gifts. Anything would’ve been better than running away as if chased by a swarm of bees while stomping worse than a herd of elephants. He is a fool. Such a fool. Merlin’s probably laughing at him.

The meeting with the CFO is a blur, and certainly not the best presentation he’s ever done, but he perseveres.

“Well done,” the CFO says afterwards, patting Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s been a tough year, but you’ve built a good team. If I don’t see you before, Merry Christmas to you and yours. Any plans for the holidays, Arthur?”

Arthur chokes out a, “Uh. Thanks. No. Staying home.” Both relieved and extremely uncomfortable, he collects his laptop quickly as his boss starts passing the photo card of his grandson sitting on Santa’s lap around the room.

This is why he doesn’t like holidays. Crazy crowds at the malls, talks at the office about visiting relatives, jolly music on the radio non-stop… Arthur hates Christmas.

He’s picking on his lunch in his office, when his mobile dings with an email notification.

He almost sends the message to spam, seeing the subject line, but then Arthur recognises the name of the sender and needs a moment to remember how to breathe before he opens it.

 

 **From:** Merlin E. [mailto:superintendent@camelotlettings.com]

 **Sent:** Wednesday, December 9, 2015, 12:05 PM

 **To:** Arthur Pendragon <a.pendragon@avalonfinancials.com>

 **Subject:** Window installation as soon as this afternoon!

 

Hello Arthur, 

I have just heard back from the window repair shop. The glass is cut and ready. They can come by and install it as late as 4 o’clock this afternoon. Please let me know if that time works for you. If you cannot be there this afternoon, are you okay with me letting the repair person in without you? As you know, I’ve the key, but I can’t go in your flat without proper notice or your permission.

I’d appreciate if you could respond no later than 3 o’clock with your decision. I have to inform the shop and I’ll need to leave my work a bit early to make it home in time.

Feel free to contact me via my mobile: +44 20 3333 2121

 

Thank you,

Merlin

 

P.S. As I mentioned before, there will be no charge for the glass replacement. On behalf of Camelot Lettings, I sincerely apologise for any discomfort caused to you by having the broken window overnight.

P.P.S. Thank you for the generous gift this morning. I enjoyed the brew very much. Not really sure what to do with the wine. Drink it with me tonight?

 

Heart in his throat, and in no way grinning, Arthur checks the clock and his calendar and clicks to reply:

 

 **From:** Arthur Pendragon [mailto:a.pendragon@avalonfinancials.com]

 **Sent:** Wednesday, December 9, 2015, 12:12 PM

 **To:** Merlin E. <superintendent@camelotlettings.com>

 **Subject:** RE: Window installation as soon as this afternoon!

 

Hello Merlin, 

That was fast, thank you. I will be at my flat at 4 o’clock sharp to meet you and the installer.

 

Sincerely,

Arthur

 

P.S. Would you at least allow me to cover half?

P.P.S. Yes.

 

<~~~>

 

Arthur does not expect Merlin to be so stubborn.

He absolutely refuses Arthur’s reimbursement, and they have a short but fiery argument about it, at the end of which Merlin flops himself on the chair in Arthur’s kitchen, sighing loudly and rolling his eyes. “Look, there’s absolutely no way I’d take your money. You just have to accept that, okay? That window’s latch shouldn’t have been painted over. The smoke alarm should’ve gone off in your flat. It’s not your fault my uncle is getting old and neglectful. In fact, I think you should send us an official complaint so I can convince him to hire a manager full-time before something worse happens. You’d actually do us a favour.”

Arthur’s a little frustrated, but mostly with himself, because in any other instance, he wouldn’t think twice about an opportunity to receive something free. He still remembers the day he turned sixteen, soon after his father had died of a heart attack, when Catrina tossed him out of the house. The fund she’d established for him was so meager, he learned to count every pence to be able to support himself. And if it weren’t for his mother’s inheritance he received at twenty-one, he still would be. 

The problem here, now, is that Merlin is more than attractive. He has dark hair, pale, smooth skin, long legs and full lips so lush, Arthur can’t stop staring at them when Merlin speaks. Basically, Merlin, with his amused smile, dark, thick lashes and fringe falling onto his eyes, is exactly Arthur’s type.

Merlin holds his ground, but his expression when he looks at Arthur is almost fond. It’s bewildering. It makes Arthur’s chest feel tight. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it, and the fluttery feeling that has settled in his stomach -- permanently, it seems -- doesn’t help him to find the right words.

But what if he’s wrong? What if he’s reading into Merlin’s niceness too much?

“So,” Merlin says, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Yes?” Arthur asks, startled and unsure where the conversation is going anymore. He pauses by the fridge, forgetting why he opened it. He shopped on the way home today, so at least it's no longer depressingly empty.

“You’ve given me expensive wine,” Merlin reminds him. “But you didn’t ring. Why?”

“Oh.” Arthur scratches his neck, looking away, and he can’t get off that topic fast enough. “How do you know it’s expensive?”

Merlin smiles. “The label is in French, the font is posh, and it was made in 1999. Practically in the last century. The assumption is rather obvious.”

Arthur snorts.

Merlin spreads his arms. “All right, I googled it.” He sits up straighter and asks in a lower voice, smile turning less sure, “Were you trying to impress me?”

Arthur can’t stop the violent blush coloring his face. “I-- It’s-- It was nothing.”

“Arthur.” Merlin shakes his head, his expression soft. “Let a guy dream a little, yeah?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Were you?”

Merlin rises to his feet, stepping in front of a fidgeting Arthur. “Was I what?”

“Um.” Arthur closes the fridge and doesn’t know what to do with his hands while he’s looking at Merlin helplessly. “Impressed?”

Merlin nods, shifting closer. “Very. Couldn’t stop thinking all day today, if it meant anything. Were you just being polite, or…”

Under Merlin’s intense gaze, Arthur licks his lips. “I told you I’d drink it with you.”

Merlin smiles. “You did, but just so we’re both clear, I was asking you on a date.”

Arthur nods, meeting Merlin’s eyes, feeling brave. “And I said yes, didn’t I?”

They both grin as they stare at each other.

“So,” Arthur says when Merlin backs away a little and he can finally think again. “Food?”

“As in?” Merlin asks.

“As in.” Arthur returns to the fridge. “You stay. I cook. We open another bottle of wine and have supper together. Sounds like a plan?”

Merlin nods thoughtfully, mirth hiding in the corners of his mouth. “Are you sure you cooking so soon is a good idea?” He looks pointedly at the saucepan on the stove with clear signs of charring on its rim, despite Arthur’s scrubbing efforts earlier. “You might want to take a break, you know. Take time to recover from the traumatic culinary experience.”

Arthur huffs. “I’m not as awful as you think I am. I’m actually sort of good at it.”

Merlin quirks a brow. “Sort of?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “You want me to brag?”

Merlin grins. “Isn’t what people do on a first date?”

Arthur freezes, and Merlin frowns a little. “Wait. You do realise we’re on a date _now_ , right?”

Arthur wakes up and nods, a bit too vigorously. “Yes, of course. I knew that.”

Merlin makes a soft sound, says, “Oh good. That blush suits you, by the way.”

If Arthur could dive into the fridge at this moment and disappear, he totally, totally would. He sticks his head inside and takes a few deep breaths through his nose with his eyes closed. He is not a coward. He is _not_ a coward, he repeats to himself several times.

“Wine?” He pops up with a bottle of chilled white and a cheery smile. Merlin laughs.

“What’s on the menu, then?” he asks.

“Don’t know yet.” Arthur bites his lip in thought. “How much time do you have?”

“Bottle opener?” Merlin asks and when Arthur points to the drawer, finds it and says, “It’s a date, remember? I have all the time in the world tonight, Arthur.”

Arthur smiles, pleased, and nods, relaxing a little. “Glasses in the upper cabinet on your left,” he instructs. “I’m thinking something hearty. Something…” He raises his finger. “Got it. How do you feel about lasagna?”

Merlin pours two glasses of wine and hands one to Arthur. “I honestly have no idea what goes into it, but sure.”

Arthur gives his wine a swirl in the glass, sniffs it, and takes a small sip. Smacking his lips, he hums, satisfied.

Unlike Arthur, Merlin just takes one long pull from his, grimaces a little, and asks Arthur, who’s staring at him. “What?”

Arthur just shakes his head without a comment, hiding his smile.

“I hope you’re not too hungry,” he says, “because it’ll take a while. I’ll be making it from scratch.”

Arthur pulls his apron from the hook on the wall. It’s black, with the slogan _Roasted_ painted on it in red. He’s self-conscious about it under Merlin’s intent gaze, while he’s trying to tie it around his waist. Merlin puts his glass on the counter and steps in to help. He’s so close, Arthur can feel the heat of Merlin’s body and smell the fruity taste of the wine on his breath.

“Here you go,” Merlin murmurs when done, but he still lingers.

Arthur clears his throat, looking away. “Thanks.”

Merlin backs away and grabs his glass again. “So, you think you’ll need my help?”

Warmth spreads in Arthur’s chest. He’s not going to lie to himself and say he didn’t have _some_   hopes involving Merlin this evening, but having him here now, relaxed and close, and looking like there’s no other place he wants to be but here with Arthur, is much more than he could’ve asked for. 

Arthur smiles. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“Okay.” Merlin nods. “Where do I start?”

Quirking his eyebrow, Arthur picks up a kitchen towel and unfolds it with a snap. “You’ll need protection.”

Merlin huffs a laugh and, turning around, backs into Arthur, raising his arms. His backside brushes against the front of Arthur’s apron, and Arthur holds his breath. It’s too late to change his mind, so he reaches around Merlin, his arms touching Merlin’s sides, almost hugging him. As he does it, he notes a small birthmark on the back of Merlin’s neck that he knows he’ll fantasise about kissing later at night when he’s alone in bed. The thought is suffocating and delicious and so, _so_ ill-timed, he has to will it away forcefully, and count to ten to stop the trembling of his fingers when he carefully tucks the edge of the towel into Merlin’s trousers, creating a makeshift apron for him as well.

When Merlin leans with his back against Arthur’s chest for a brief moment, Arthur tells himself he imagined it. He still blushes and knows Merlin notices it when they’re standing face-to-face again.

The amused, soft expression is still on Merlin’s face when he asks, “What now?”

Arthur rubs his chin. “Um. We’ll make a dough?”

“I’m game!” Merlin says.

An hour later, when the flour dust has settled, freshly-made lasagna is merrily bubbling in the oven, and they’re on the second bottle of wine, Merlin leans against the kitchen counter next to Arthur, looking at him while slowly swishing the wine in his glass.

“I must admit,” he says, “when you said ‘from scratch’, I didn’t expect you to roll out the sheets of pasta by hand. You’re a natural.”

“Wait until you‘ve tried the end result,” Arthur promises, flattered and emboldened by the compliment.

“I will, but I’m sure it’ll be gorgeous,” Merlin says with certainty. “I believe in you.”

It could just be the wine, but Arthur’s mind is a little sluggish. Everything around him is bit blurry, fuzzy, and Merlin… Arthur stares at Merlin, who wets his lips, licking off the remnants of wine, and smiles at Arthur, disarmingly soft. And Arthur is thinking… he’s thinking… he can’t put his thoughts to exact words; all he knows is that he hasn’t felt this easy, this comfortable with someone since -- well, ever -- and if he weren’t on his way to getting half-drunk, he’d probably be very scared by the notion.

“I’ve been thinking about taking some cookery classes, but…” Arthur shrugs.

“Wait. You’ve got a bit...” Merlin puts his glass down, and looking at something on Arthur’s face, leans closer. His fingers swipe across Arthur’s chin. “There.”

Just inches away, Merlin’s eyes are extremely blue. A beautiful, dark color Arthur drowns in. Merlin stills with his hand still at Arthur’s face, his expression changing from fond and gentle to something deeper, with more intent. “I want to kiss you so bad right now,” he whispers, hovering very close, but still keeping the last distance. “May I kiss you?”

Arthur groans his approval and doesn’t wait, kissing Merlin first.

 

<~~~>

 

There are more emails and texts; flirting, banter, small confessions that leave Arthur sometimes tight-chested and often grinning like a fool. They have another dinner -- Arthur cooks, of course -- and a movie night, although neither of them remembers what the movie was about. They were too busy snogging.

Arthur learns that Merlin’s mother, Hunith, lives in Eador, an hour from London, and they’re conspiring to have Gaius move to live with her -- he’s getting too old. Merlin loves his job as a soundman, and although the money could be better, he wouldn't change it for anything. Being too wrapped up in his small world, Arthur hasn't realized until now how actively Merlin’s involved in life at Camelot Court. There are a total of 40 flats in the building, and Merlin knows most neighbours by their name and has helped many of them in one way or another.

When one evening a frightened little girl knocks on Merlin’s door, crying, Arthur learns there's a deadbeat living in flat 39, who is mean to his family when drunk. Merlin instructs the girl to stay put in his flat while he goes to investigate. With his phone at his ear, Arthur follows, and it's Arthur who steps in to shield a crying woman from her husband’s flying fists.

“The police have been called,” he says firmly, manhandling the drunk guy, twisting his arms behind his back. “Miss, are you okay?”

The woman nods, wiping her eyes.

“Would you like me to change the locks once he's gone, Sefa?” Merlin asks. The woman nods after a pause. “Then it's done.”

Merlin claps Arthur's shoulder as they walk back to Merlin’s flat after the drunk’s been picked up by the police. “My hero.”

Arthur’s heart swells under Merlin’s admiring eyes. “It was nothing,” he murmurs, his face feeling a little warm.

“Well, it meant a lot to Sefa and her girl. I should've done this a long time ago.”

Merlin changes the locks that evening and Arthur assists.

But that's just one side of it, Arthur learns. When a guy in flat 3 needs help to start his dead car,  Merlin is there. Merlin regularly buys groceries for the elderly woman in 11; he drives a sobbing owner with their sick pet from 22 to a vet; and occasionally, he babysits five-year-old twins from 35 to allow their parents to have a night out.

It's not hard to guess that the people of Camelot Court love Merlin, and Arthur starts to think he won't be far behind.

 

<~~~>

 

Merlin is a fantastic kisser. Arthur doesn't know if it's possible to fall in love with a particular part of a person’s body, but Arthur can't get enough of Merlin’s mouth. It does unspeakable, daring, delicious things to Arthur that have kept him in a dazed, floating state since that first date.

It's a day before Christmas, and they are at Merlin's flat.

The time moves at unhurried speed with Arthur stretched out on Merlin's bed, fingers in Merlin's hair, moaning, “Merlin, god, Merlin.” He's receiving the best blow job of his entire existence and it's at the point where he doesn't know anymore whether he wants it to last forever or for Merlin to let him come already. It's bliss and torture wrapped in one, so intense, Arthur’s aching.

Merlin looks up, eyes dark, mouth red, chin shiny with spit. He frowns, murmurs something Arthur doesn't register, he’s so hazy. Merlin kisses Arthur’s inner thigh, shifts up a bit to press a kiss to his hip. He trails his tongue up Arthur’s rigid length, placing one more kiss to the spongy, twitching tip, and whispers, “I hear you sometimes, you know.”

Arthur raises his head to stare at Merlin, not sure what Merlin’s saying.

Merlin kisses Arthur’s stomach, presses his nose there briefly, and murmurs, “You never bring anyone home, but I hear you.” He gazes up, locking his eyes with Arthur’s. “Your bedroom is right above mine.”

Arthur groans and flops back, covering his face. He feels Merlin shift, run his fingers over Arthur’s ribs, up his chest, sending goosebumps up Arthur’s flesh. Merlin’s other hand finds Arthur’s erection, squeezes. Arthur can’t stop the moan of pleasure, his hips hitching up. God, what Merlin does to him, his words…

Merlin starts moving his hand at a steady speed, pumping Arthur as he keeps talking. “The noises you make, Arthur. A few times, I came just from listening to you. Barely touched myself.”

Still gripping Arthur, Merlin moves up, kisses Arthur’s chin, a corner of his mouth. “I used to imagine what kind of noises you’d make if it weren’t just you by yourself. I thought about…” He presses his lips to the side of Arthur’s neck, gives it a sharp suck that will definitely leave a mark and whispers, hot and wet, next to Arthur’s ear, “...thought about touching you... Until you beg for it. Wanted to hear you being loud.”

Embarrassed and turned on beyond belief, Arthur moans louder, words slipping out of his mouth. “You thought about me.”

Merlin huffs softly. “Fantasised, yes. About my gorgeous neighbour. Never thought I had a chance, though.”

Arthur exhales, shuddering.

Merlin touches his arm. “Look at me. I want you to look at me, Arthur.” He places a kiss to Arthur’s jaw, gives it a gentle scrape of his teeth. He tugs and twists his hand, jerking Arthur off. “Let me see you.”

Arthur moves his arm away, delirious, sweaty, out of breath and out of depth. His eyes finally focus on Merlin’s and there’s so much care, so much affection, Arthur feels like crying.

Merlin presses a thumb to Arthur’s bottom lip, smiling softly. “There you are,” he breathes. “Arthur, you… Don't you know how brilliant you are?”

Arthur reaches up to grip the back of Merlin neck. It's hot and damp with sweat, and fits under Arthur’s palm perfectly. Staring at Merlin, he kisses his thumb, sucks it into his mouth, and wraps his fingers around Merlin’s erection, giving it an experimental tug.

And now Merlin’s groaning, his breath quickening. “God, yes.” Merlin’s lips replace his thumb at Arthur’s mouth. Their kiss is deep, hungry, frantic, their sounds muffled as they both bring each other closer and closer to release.

“Arthur, let go,” Merlin whispers when they break apart, their chests heaving. “You don’t need to hold back anymore. Let go, love.”

He pumps Arthur once, twice, and Arthur lets out a loud groan of pleasure and surges up into Merlin’s hand, eyes rolling into the back of his head. He cries out Merlin’s name again and again, twitching and twitching while he’s coming.

Merlin follows him, jerking in Arthur’s hand, forehead pressed to Arthur’s as he stares right at him.

“Thank you,” Merlin says later, when they’ve both calmed down.

Arthur trails his finger over the side of Merlin’s face, traces the lines of his cheekbone and his jaw. “I don’t know what I did.”

Merlin takes Arthur’s hand and presses his mouth to his wrist, kisses the soft point. “For letting me hear you.” He places a hand on Arthur’s chest, where his heart is. “Right here. Best sound ever.”

Arthur pulls Merlin into a hug and doesn’t let go for a while, feeling whole for the first time in his life.

 

<~~~>

 

Logically, Arthur knows that he can’t keep Merlin holed up with him forever. Merlin needs to visit his mum, and he has other plans in the morning Arthur isn’t a part of, and he’s already been granted so much in just a short period of time he feels spoiled.

He’s not looking forward to spending another Christmas Eve alone, and he thinks he should be used to it by now, yet the thought of it sours his mood.

Merlin walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered and cheerful, and stops in the doorframe. Some thought shadows his expression as he looks at Arthur and he says, “Hey, what are your plans for tomorrow night?”

Arthur frowns. “Um, nothing special.” There’s no way he’ll admit to Merlin that he doesn’t expect a single guest at his house. There’s no Christmas tree with presents under it, although he has prepared something for Merlin, which he hasn't figured out how to give to him. Arthur refuses to stress over it just yet.

Merlin, gloriously naked and unabashed, dries his hair with the towel and glances at Arthur. “Does it mean you have some spare time?”

“Sure,” Arthur agrees quickly.

“Even if it means free physical labour for several hours on your holiday?” Merlin asks, pulling on his pants and trousers.

“I’d be happy to, honestly,” Arthur insists. “Whatever you need.”

“Brilliant.” Merlin claps his hands and points at Arthur. “Be ready tomorrow by two o’clock.”

Arthur frowns in confusion. “In the morning?”

“No, of course not. In the afternoon. I’ll pick you up.”

“Where are we going? How should I be dressed?” Arthur asks, intrigued.

Merlin grins at Arthur. “To be honest, I like you arse-naked the most, but I don’t think you’d agree to go out with me starkers. Let’s give it a year.”

Arthur’s heart lurches at the implication that Merlin has plans for them still being together in a year. Arthur’s definitely in agreement with such a fine plan.

“Okay, so,” he says, trying not to smile too wide.

“Definitely no office attire. Anything casual is good,” Merlin responds. “Nothing you’re afraid to get a grease stain on.”

Arthur laughs. “Are you saying I'm a messy eater?!”

“No, but it'll be a bit messy at the soup kitchen, where I volunteer. There are about a hundred people who come for Christmas Eve supper every year. We cook and serve. Would you go with me to help tomorrow?”

Arthur doesn't think twice nor is he surprised. Of course Merlin is a volunteer on top of everything else. “Yes. Yes, Merlin.” He gets out of bed to kiss Merlin. “Of course I'll go with you.”

Merlin trips Arthur back into bed and presses him into the sheets. “Good answer. I say that deserves a reward.”

Arthur doesn't know how he deserves any of this; with his heart feeling too big and lungs too small, he presses his face into Merlin's neck, warm and smelling of soap, and wonders if this is what home feels like.

 

<~~~>

 

“Hullo,” Merlin says, stepping into Arthur’s flat the next day. He sniffs the air. “What is this heavenly smell?”

His eyes roam over Arthur, who's dressed in jeans and a blue polo shirt. “Looking nice.” He reaches to kiss Arthur. If it was supposed to be quick, it's not how it plays out. They end up grappling for each other and snogging like teenagers until neither of them can breathe.

“God, you drive me mad,” Merlin whispers, holding Arthur's face between his hands. “I wish we could stay in. I have this… thing I wanted to try with you.”

“Yeah?” Arthur gets excited, too quickly. He presses Merlin against the door, pushing his hips flush with Merlin’s. “Tell me.”

Merlin groans, hitching his leg over Arthur’s, pulls him closer. It gives Arthur thrills -- that he can affect someone this way, someone he cares a crazy amount about, who seems to care about Arthur a lot in return.

“Wait, Arthur,” Merlin says in a minute, between more kisses. “Wait. We have to go now, or we’ll be late.”

Arthur touches his forehead to Merlin’s, nodding. He sighs. “I knew you'd say that.”

Merlin adjusts himself. “Tonight, yeah?”

“Can't wait.”

“Ready to go?” Merlin asks.

Arthur nods. “Almost. I'm gonna need you to give me a hand first. In the kitchen.”

At the kitchen door, Merlin freezes, his jaw slacking. “What. Is this?”

Arthur smoothing his hair. “Errr. I baked. I hope this is enough.”

“Enough?” Merlin shakes his head. “For like a million people, probably! When did you manage to do all this?”

“Um.” Arthur rubs his neck. “I started last night. Finished an hour ago.”

Arthur has never had someone look at him with so much admiration before, and he thinks it was worth it -- a night spent baking 200 chocolate chip cookies that now occupy every surface of the kitchen, so every person coming to the soup kitchen tonight could leave with a homemade goodie. It's not much, Arthur knows, but he gave it his best.

“God, I love you.” Merlin surges towards Arthur, pulling him by his collar to kiss him. Arthur goes willingly, opening up to him, but Merlin stills, a brief panic seizing his features. His eyes are searching Arthur’s face. “Is this too soon?”

Arthur smiles, feeling unbelievably warm and basking in it. He shakes his head, pulling Merlin closer. “No,” he whispers. “Please say it again.”

 

<~~~>

 

Once the cookies are all packed and everything's ready, Arthur decides to seize the moment and he hands Merlin his Christmas gift.

Merlin rips the paper with the excitement of a little kid and beams when he pulls an apron out of the gift box. It's black like Arthur’s, simple, no frills, because Arthur already knows Merlin's taste. And it has Merlin's name stitched on in blue at the front.

“For moi?” Merlin asks, pressing a hand to his heart. “Aww, I'm flattered you believe in my non-existent culinary abilities.”

Arthur clears his throat. “Well, I thought you could leave it here with mine.” He points at his own _Roasted_ apron hanging on the hook, looking lonely. “We could cook together and learn. Together.”

“I'd love that. Thank you.” Merlin’s grin is a million watts bright and so infectious, Arthur starts to grin too. “Actually, I was about to suggest to take your apron with you. You’ll need it.”

Arthur picks it up and packs it together with Merlin’s, humming. This has already been the best Christmas he's ever had, and the day isn't even over yet.

 

<~~~>

 

It's snowing outside and the streets are quiet. It's no surprise -- most people are at home right now, getting ready to celebrate Christmas Eve, and even those who don't celebrate it are probably with their friends and families on their day off. A lot of houses are decorated for the holidays, lights blinking cheerfully, which normally Arthur finds annoying and unnecessary, but tonight, as he’s sitting next to Merlin in the car and holding his hand, there's nothing but peace in his heart. He sighs happily.

Turns out, the soup kitchen is only a few streets down from Camelot Court -- a small, unoccupied grey building, marked heavily with graphite, that Arthur has been passing every day and not even knowing its purpose. There is already a line of people at the front, dressed in layers and holding on to shopping carts, full with their life belongings.

“This place used to be a bank. We’re trying to gain the city’s approval to make this a permanent location for a shelter,” Merlin explains as they drive up to the back of the building. “It's not much to look at right now and it gets regularly trashed inside, but if it becomes ours, we can do some renovations, secure it, put up a proper sign. Right now it's just us handing out flyers and word of mouth.”

Arthur can only imagine the amount of time and dedication it takes to do this kind of a job. “Where do you get the money?” he asks.

“Donations in all forms. We knock on all kinds of doors. I try to raise awareness at work. Some executives are more generous than others.” Merlin pauses, looking ahead. “Sometimes I get discouraged when I see how unfair life can be. There are kids on the streets, hungry, abused. Kids, Arthur! But in general, people are kinder than you'd expect. You'd be surprised who offers to volunteer for us.”

Arthur nods. He gets it and it gives him a new perspective. When Catrina threw him out, he was angry. So angry. But at least she hadn’t left him completely penniless. He worked through school and shared rooms with a gazillion roommates, but so do a million other students. There’s nothing unique about his circumstances and he has very little to complain about now.

“Gaius supplies us with necessary hardware, paint, electrical heaters. The building has electricity, but the central heating system is broken,” Merlin tells Arthur as they walk in, laden with bags.

Inside, it smells faintly of mold and piss, masked by a stronger smell of fresh paint. Christmas music is playing, and there’s a dozen people moving around, unpacking boxes, setting and dressing the tables and chairs, putting up decorations on the walls.

They meet Merlin with a chorus of, “Look who’s here! Merlin!” And, “Did you bring blankets?” And, “We’re low on members today and behind the schedule.”

Merlin gives hugs to everyone who comes up, listens, nods. Arthur feels a bit out of place.

Merlin glances at Arthur and says loudly, “Guys, listen up!” Everyone stops what they're doing and looks up. “This is Arthur, my boyfriend, and he'll be helping with cooking tonight. He’s excellent at it.”

Arthur doesn't know what to flush about first: Merlin calling him his boyfriend for the first time, Merlin doing so in front of strangers, or Merlin complimenting his cooking skills.

“Boyfriend, huh?” A bloke with shoulder-length hair strolls up, crunching on an apple. “Must be serious if you're bringing him here. I'm Gwaine, by the way.”  He offers Arthur his hand. “Would love to hear how our Merlin is in the sack.”

“Gwaine!” Merlin squeaks.

It gives Arthur an immense pleasure to see Merlin pinking up too. He grins, feeling instantly at ease.

“What? Inquiring minds want to know,” Gwaine says, winking at Arthur.

“That's for Arthur to know and for you to never find out,” Merlin says firmly.

“Shame, but if you two ever decide…” Gwaine wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Get busy, Gwaine.” A girl with dark curly hair and pretty dark eyes comes up and gives Gwaine a cuff over the back of his head. She looks at Arthur. “Forgive him. No bedside manners. Hello, Arthur, I'm Freya. Thank you for coming to help us tonight. Merlin, Brunhilda didn't show up. Stomach flu.”

“Bugger,” Merlin mutters. "Our main cook."

Arthur thinks for a moment and checks his watch. “When do we start serving?”

Merlin looks at Arthur. “First group comes in at six.”

“How many people?”

“Thirty-five.”

That’s manageable.

Arthur nods. “So we have three hours. Where’s the kitchen?”

A pleased smile appears on Merlin’s face. “Behind you. But Arthur, there are going to be a lot of people to feed. A _lot._ Brunhilda already had a system.”

“Well, what choice do we have?” Arthur asks, moving into the kitchen.

“There’s help coming,” Merlin says. He looks away. “Later.”

“Good.”

The kitchen’s floor is covered with boxes and bags with groceries. Oversized pans and pots are stocked up on the industrial stove, the likes of which Arthur’s never seen before, with too many knobs and buttons. Arthur pauses, overwhelmed. Where does he even begin?

“I already started peeling potatoes,” Freya says. “Let me show you around?”

“God, thank you, Freya. Please,” Arthur says, bowing his head. He hears Merlin instructing Gwaine to get more boxes out of Merlin’s car.

“Merlin said help is coming. You’ll be fine,” Freya says. She explains briefly where everything is, how to work appliances, and shows the Christmas dinner menu: roasted chicken with potatoes, sauteed brussels sprouts, and something called Yule Log for dessert. He’s never heard of it, but all recipes and ingredients are provided.

Arthur closes his eyes, channeling his culinary god. What would Kilgara do if he were here right now? He’d go for simple but savoury. Something he’d call his own.

Arthur opens his eyes, ready for the challenge. He puts his apron on. Rolls up his sleeves, places the first box with groceries on the table, and opens it with determination.

 

 <~~~>

 

Arthur’s enthusiasm dwindles to almost nothing after the first hour. The oven takes too long to heat up and then it’s too hot, nearly burning the first batch of chicken. The knives are too dull, the water pressure is too low, and the brussels sprouts taste like feet once cooked. It takes some serious cursing and several adjustments until he gets the oven to the right temperature, figures out the right utensils, and discovers that brussels sprouts are much, much better when he stirs in some crispy fried bacon with it. He still isn’t sure how the chicken will taste, and when it comes to the Yule Log cake, well, it’s simple enough to make, and when Arthur reads the recipe, there's nothing wrong with it. It needs plain flour, table sugar, butter, eggs, cocoa, but it just sounds so… blah. Kilgara wouldn’t approve.

Making a decision, Arthur jots instructions on a piece of paper and calls, “Hey, Merlin? A little help?... Merlin?”

Merlin takes a full minute to respond. When he shows up, it’s with a strange expression on his face. “Did you need something?”

Arthur glances at him. “Yes. Is it possible to send someone to my flat?”

“Why?”

Arthur nods at the piece of paper on the table, and goes back to cutting more bacon. “To pick up a few things from my kitchen.”

“What does it say? Let's see,” someone -- _not_ Merlin -- says, and reads out loud from Arthur’s list, “‘All my spices from the rack. Extract of vanilla, cinnamon sticks, a bag of almond nuts from the top shelf of the cabinet in the left-hand corner’.”

Arthur freezes, knife in hand. 

“A bag of almonds to feed a hundred people,” the voice behind Arthur continues. “I’d like to see you try.”

Arthur knows this voice -- deep in the chest, grating, with a heavy dose of sarcasm -- and he’s twelve again, a wide-eyed boy who believed a homemade meal could bring families together.

It can’t be. Arthur’s dreaming. It can’t be.

Still in deep disbelief, Arthur slowly turns around and comes face-to-face with none other than his childhood idol, a culinary genius -- Kilgara, who is here, by some providence, in the flesh. The man is tall and wiry, hunching a little, his famous brown jacket hanging loose off his shoulders. Deep wrinkles and acne scars are covering his face, his signature prickly goatee and whiskers almost totally grey. He looks too real to _be_ real, as if he’s just stepped off the telly screen.

Stricken, Arthur opens his mouth and closes it, opens it again and stays like that.

“Merlin.” Kilgara glances at Merlin, who steps into the kitchen behind the old man, and he thumbs in Arthur's direction. “Has he gone with the fairies?”

Arthur can see why he’s making that particular impression and snaps his mouth shut.

“He wasn’t expecting you, sir,” Merlin says, sounding slightly offended on Arthur’s behalf. He looks at Arthur, smile laced with uncertainty and guilt and offers, “Uh, surprise?”

Arthur drops the knife and wipes his hand frantically on his apron before offering it to Kilgara. “Uh. Yes, hullo. I’m Arthur. I’m your--”

It’s such a cliche to tell someone this famous that you're his biggest fan. First of all, Arthur’s not just a big fan -- he’s a _massive_ fan of such a degree, it surpasses all levels of nerdiness. He used to have a huge crush on the man. Second, if Arthur starts fanboying right now, what kind of an impression will he make on his idol? He’s not twelve anymore, is he? No. So he better stop acting like it.

Arthur swallows, sets his jaw. “I’m the cook here,” he corrects himself, and adds quickly, “as you’ve probably figured out.”

Eyeing the logo on Arthur’s apron, Kilgara snorts softly. “Then I believe I’m your helping hand.”

Arthur’s eyes bug out. He turns to Merlin in disbelief.

“Kilgara said he wanted to help,” Merlin says. “I just told him we already have the cook.”

Arthur doesn’t know where to look. This is embarrassing, and humbling, and… and not even in his wildest dreams…

He checks himself quickly. Grabbing Merlin by the front of his sweater, he tells Kilgara, “Excuse us for a moment,” and drags Merlin into the hallway.

Once there, Merlin flails, swearing in a whisper, “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Arthur whispers back, too loud, and glances at the open kitchen door. He tries to lower his voice, but is too freaked out to succeed. “A _helping hand_? Are you mad?”

Merlin smiles sheepishly. “I got his email through one of my colleagues. Kilgara's no stranger to volunteer work, but when I contacted him on such a short notice, I didn’t even expect him to respond, but he did.”

“Well, he’s amazing like that,” Arthur says, proud of his hero.

“I can see that,” Merlin amends. “He said he was going to be late tonight due to a conflict, and I wasn’t sure until the last minute whether he’d show up. It wouldn’t have been nice to get your hopes up, would it?”

Arthur sighs. Then smiles, sure he looks like he’s on dope right now. “You brought _Kilgara,_ so I could meet him.”

Merlin grins. “I did.”

Arthur leans in and kisses him quickly. “Remember that _thing_ you wanted us to try later together?” he asks.

Merlin’s breath hitches. “Yeah?”

“I’ll do it." Arthur kisses his lips again. "I’ll be so good to you tonight, you’ll beg me to stay in your bed forever, _boyfriend._ ”

Merlin’s eyes lose their focus. He reaches for Arthur, but Arthur laughs and ducks under his arm. “Not right now. _Later._ ”

“So, young man,” Kilgara greets Arthur once he’s back. “Done with giggling? Ready for your test or not?”

When Merlin had said the man speaks in riddles, he wasn’t kidding, but that becomes unimportant when Kilgara takes out his set of knives, and Arthur’s gaze is glued to them instantly.

Kilgara clears his throat.

“Yes. Done.” Arthur wakes up, blushing. “Errr. Ready, I mean. Sir.”

Kilgara’s mouth stretches into something that only someone with a wild imagination could call a smile. Arthur will take it if that’s all Kilgara got for him.

“Show me what you got,” the grizzled chef says. Arthur quickly hands him the menu.

Merlin pops in, waving the piece of paper Arthur gave him earlier. “Do you still want me to pop to your flat?”

“You heard the boss,” Kilgara answers for Arthur. He looks around and spots the pan with sauteed brussels sprouts Arthur made earlier. He picks a clean spoon and tastes some of it, smacking his lips with a faraway expression. “Bacon?” he finally asks.

Arthur nods, awaiting the verdict while holding his breath.

“The recipe didn’t call for it,” Kilgara challenges, tapping on the dinner menu.

Arthur swallows. “There was no time to make stuffing, so I repurposed it.”

Kilgara hums with a nod, and if Arthur weren’t a grown man, he’d probably piss himself, he’s so chuffed by this approval.

“What are the spices and nuts for?” Kilgara asks, picking up one of his knives.

Arthur steps back to the chopping board and does the same. “The Yule Log cake, right?” he starts explaining animatedly, all his previous jitters gone. “Well, I was thinking…”

Kilgara listens attentively to Arthur pouring out his ideas while chopping onions at blurry speed, making different noises when he agrees or disagrees.

Arthur is so engrossed in his work with Kilgara, he loses track of time.

 

<~~~>

 

By the end of the evening, Arthur has a deep cut on his finger and a burn on his hand, but no one leaves hungry, and his chocolate chip cookies are a big hit.

“Missing something,” Kilgara comments after taking a bite of the cookie.

Arthur’s not offended. Like a sponge, he readily absorbs every piece of advice he receives, even if some of the comments from the master chef are hard to swallow.

“Sea salt,” Kilgara suggests. “Sprinkled on top.”

Arthur tastes his own creation again and agrees completely. “Sea salt.”

It’s that simple sometimes.

He smiles gently, looking at Merlin sitting at the table with the rest of the volunteers, practically inhaling the leftover chicken. He’s a bit flushed from a hard day’s work and more subdued, but still seems in good spirits. Arthur wonders if this is how a person who has a real purpose looks like and whether he’ll find this level of contentment and gratification one day, too. He hopes soon.

“Next time,” he tells Kilgara, placing a plate with the last few cookies on the table for everyone, sitting down next to Merlin. “I’ll make them right.”

Kilgara tuts, stroking his goatee. “You’ve already achieved that tonight, young man.”

Arthur doubts that, shaking his head. He cocked up a lot tonight. Wasted too much food because of his inexperience, made too many people wait while hungry and cold.

“If you spend all your time in life worrying about what should’ve been, you’ll miss every opportunity given to you to actually enjoy it,” Kilgara offers. “Don’t look for what’s ahead of you, Arthur, but at what’s right in front of you.”  

He shakes everyone’s hand and leaves, holding his head high like he’s some kind of royalty.

Merlin chuckles, bumping his shoulder with Arthur’s. “What did I tell you? It’s always riddles with him.”

Maybe.

Except now Arthur agrees with the old man completely -- what’s right in front of him is the only thing that matters.

He leans in, reaching for Merlin’s hand. “Are you ready to go home yet?”

“Home?” Gwaine asks, with his mouth full. “Where’s that? Your flat or Merlin’s?”

Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze and smiles. “As long as I get to go with him.” He squeezes Merlin’s hand. “I really don't care.”

Merlin returns a smile, wide and full of promises -- only for Arthur. The affection in Merlin’s shining eyes is so bright and deep, it fills Arthur’s heart to the brim.

Merlin links their fingers together and says, “Yes, I'm ready.”

 

~FIN~

 


End file.
